And his quietness, his reserve, the wall between us that had never been there before—it reminded me of the conversations I’d overheard between Bobby and West. West’s almost-shrewish complaining. Bobby’s mild answers.

  It made me go insane.

  There’s no other word for it. I can’t defend or justify or excuse what happened next.

  My volume rose with each word until I was shouting: “I want you to say that you’re making a mistake!”

  He still wouldn’t look at me. He stood there, breathing slowly. And then he said, “I’m sorry you feel that way,” and he turned and picked up another box.

  “That’s it?” A tiny voice at the back of my head told me to get myself under control, but it was too late for that. “You’re sorry I feel that way? Because the subtext there is screw you.”

  He was transferring some of the clothes he’d taken from the dresser to the box. He dropped the rest of them in, straightened, and turned to face me. The color was high in his cheeks now. “I don’t know what you want me to say. I’m moving in with Kiefer because I love him—”

  “You don’t love him! You don’t even know him!”

  “You’re my friend, but this conversation isn’t productive—”

  “No, this conversation is scary to you because I’m acting like a crazy person. Because my feelings are all out of whack. And your feelings are all out of whack, and you don’t like that at all. You’ll do just about anything so that you don’t have to feel out of control.”

  For a moment, he was motionless. I wasn’t even sure he was breathing. He stared back at me, but it wasn’t like he was seeing me. Then, his voice gravelly, he said, “Fine. I’ll come back when we’ve both cooled down—”

  I moved into his path. “That’s why you were trying to kill yourself with work and exercise and surfing after the breakup. That’s why you’re rushing into this thing with Kiefer, because you feel like your life is out of control, and he’s twenty years old and he’ll do whatever you want him to do, even if it means you’re making a huge mistake because you don’t want to live with him, and you certainly don’t love him, you just want not to feel like this anymore.”

  “You had your chance!” The few times in my life I’d heard Bobby yell, it had been terrifying. This was no exception. Part of it was the sheer volume—he had a set of lungs on him—but most of it was watching his control snap. His cheeks were hectic, and he was breathing so hard he was almost hyperventilating. “I tried, Dash. I did everything I could to let you know how I felt about you, and you knew what I was doing. You knew.” The hurt brought his voice to the edge of cracking. “And you found a million ways to tell me no without ever telling me no. So, you had your chance. I don’t want to be alone forever. I don’t want to—to wait, and to hope that someday, when you finally think I’m worth taking a risk for, you’ll be open to the possibility of actually going out on a date. Nobody wants to live like that. You don’t even want to live like that. But you’re so scared that you won’t even try, and I’m sorry about that because I want you to be happy.” He wiped his eyes. His next words trembled as he tried to control himself. “I’m not going to be locked into this weird limbo, where you get all the benefits of a relationship without having to take any of the risks, just because you’re scared. That’s not fair to me. It’s not fair to anyone.”

  There was simply too much in those words to process. Too much, and all of it too frightening, so I latched on to the part I could wrap my head around. “You knew I was bad at relationships. You knew I was scared. And you kept pushing and pushing because you don’t like uncertainty, and you didn’t want to wait.”

  “I pushed because I wanted to be with you.”

  “And I didn’t want to be your rebound! You’d broken up with West, like, three months before that. You were still working through all of that. And I didn’t want to jump into a relationship either—a year ago, I changed everything, Bobby, and that included leaving the only serious relationship I’d ever been in. Did you even think about the fact that I needed time too?”

  “You told me to date other people. You told me you were going to be single forever. That you wanted to be single.”

  “Because I wanted both of us to have time to build a solid foundation for our relationship!”

  “Are you insane?” Bobby shouted. “This isn’t a story, Dash. You can’t plot out people’s lives and expect them to play along. I’m not a character in a book! I’m a person! I have feelings!”

  “I have feelings too! And if you knew I was so scared, why couldn’t you just come out and tell me what you wanted? Why couldn’t you just say to my face that you liked me and that you wanted to try dating?”

  Bobby was drawing harsh, long breaths through his nose. When he spoke, I didn’t recognize his voice, but the words were clear. “All right. How’s this for communication: I want to date you. What do you want?”

  My throat closed up. One second became five. Five became ten. My eyes welled with tears, and I had to look away.

  “This is why I’m moving in with Kiefer,” Bobby said. “Because you still can’t tell me how you feel.”

  I stood there, blinking to clear my eyes. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t come up with words. It was like my nightmare: paralysis of body and thought, unable to move or speak or even think. But then I saw, next to the lamp, his keys. I grabbed them.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Bobby asked.

  “I’m not letting you move in with him,” I said and ran for the door.

  Chapter 15

  I sprinted through the dark house, clutching Bobby’s keys. If he chased me, I didn’t hear him—I couldn’t hear anything over the hammer of my steps and my ragged breaths. A moment later, I was bursting out into the pleasant cool of an evening on the Oregon coast, the air sweet with hemlock and timothy and cedar and the brine of the sea. I climbed into the Pilot and started the car, and I sped down the drive. Then I was driving north, into the fog belt and the forest of spruce and fir and fern, where the trees rippled and whispered like a darker ocean.

  I didn’t have a plan. I wasn’t even thinking, really. I’d gone into flight mode, and the higher-level functioning of my brain had completely shut down. But as the cocktail of hormones ebbed, clarity started to return. I couldn’t go far. I was technically committing grand theft auto, for one reason. And, for another, where would I go? Back to my parents? Was I legally required to move after—well, whatever you called that scene back at Hemlock House? A farce? A travesty? A debacle?

  A fight. A horribly, ugly fight with my best friend.

  I want you to be happy.

  I knew if I let myself think too much about what Bobby had said—what we had both said—I’d fall apart again, so I forced myself to take deep breaths, to let my thoughts slide away. They were leaves on a river, carried away by the water. They were cars on a road, zipping past me. They were, uh, pages in a book? I kept falling asleep during the meditation app, but there was probably another good metaphor in there somewhere.

  By the time I pulled into the Hastings Rock Public Library’s parking lot, I could have passed for a human being (if you didn’t look too closely). I sat there for a while, my hands shaking until I clasped them in my lap. I let my head fall back. I closed my eyes. As the adrenaline leached out of my body, exhaustion took its place, accompanied by a renewed awareness of every ache and pang from the prior day’s accident. I couldn’t fall asleep. I had to work up the courage to drive back to Hemlock House. I’d leave the keys under the doormat, the way they did in movies sometimes. And I’d write a quitclaim deed leaving the house to Indira. And then I’d wander off into the forest and get eaten by a bear. Like that guy in that movie who got eaten by a bear.

  Or, God help me, I could try—try—apologizing to Bobby.

  But what would I say? Yes, I’m in love with you. You make me happy every day. I want to spend every minute I can with you. You’re smart, and you’re funny (but not too funny, like, in an annoying way), and you’re so good with Keme that sometimes I think you have a built-in dad mode that got activated when you were twelve. You move your head when you listen to music, sometimes. You keep time with your fingers on your chest. You have this way of being in a place, in a space, like you have your own gravity, and even though every other hour of the day I feel like the ground is crumbling beneath me, when I’m around you, it’s like I’m standing on something solid, and everything makes sense. So, yes, I want to spend the rest of my life listening to you explain why I can’t park there because it’s a red curb—

  Someone tapped on the window.

  I screamed.

  Someone else screamed.

  Somehow, I managed to crawl back inside my own skin and turn to look out of the Pilot.

  Mrs. Shufflebottom stood there. Hastings Rock’s head librarian had white hair, piercing eyes, and cardigans so disturbingly tight that they looked like straitjackets. (Like, you have no idea. It looked like she was vacuum sealed inside those things.) She was a heck of a librarian, from what I could tell—I was a regular patron, and the library had an impressive collection—and she did a fantastic Mrs. Claus at Christmas. She was also my self-proclaimed nemesis, and right then, she was staring at me through the window like she wanted to brain me, clutching her cardigan at her throat.

  “Oh my God,” I said. “I’m so—” I buzzed down the window. “I’m so sorry. You startled me.”

  To my surprise, Mrs. Shufflebottom gave a little laugh, and her chokehold on the cardigan relaxed. “And you startled me, Dashiell.” I opened my mouth to correct her, but there was something strangely pleasant about how she said my full name. “You’re parked in front of—” But then she stopped. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  It wasn’t super convincing, though, because I started to cry. Not sobs. Not even tears running down my face. But my eyes stung, and I dropped my head.

  Mrs. Shufflebottom made a soft noise. She patted my shoulder and said, “It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s all going to be okay.” I wasn’t sure how—witchcraft, maybe—but somehow she got the Pilot’s door open, and the next thing I knew, she was urging me out of the car. “Come inside and have some tea.”

  About my only coherent thought was to hope that, since she was my nemesis and all, it would be poisoned tea. Maybe she’d bury me under the library. Maybe I could be a not-so-friendly ghost haunting the cookbook section.

  The library wasn’t much to look at. It was a single-story brown building with a utilitarian design at odds with the rest of Hastings Rock’s picturesque charm. Inside, it smelled like well-used carpet, aging paper, and the damp that settles into cloth and wood but that isn’t quite mildew. The fluorescents were bright, but the acoustic tiles were water stained, and the windows were small and made the library feel unexpectedly close.

  Still, Mrs. Shufflebottom had done her best. As I said, it had a first-rate collection, and although the furniture was mismatched, it was clear that she’d purchased items in an attempt to maximize comfort and usability (and frankly, cleanability—you’d be surprised at the kind of stuff people get up to in a library). (Not that. Get your mind out of the gutter.) She settled me in a plush armchair near the circulation desk and left me. I could hear her bustling around in the staff-only area. Before long, she came back with a tea service. This was the second time in the last week someone had brought me a tea service. I wasn’t much of a tea drinker, but it made me feel so civilized.

  After pouring the tea and offering me milk and sugar, Mrs. Shufflebottom seemed content to sit in silence as we drank. The mug was pleasantly warm between my hands, and although I wasn’t a tea connoisseur, it tasted good. Some of the knots in my body untied themselves. Another wave of emotion washed over me, but it was gentler this time. Disappointment. Loss. Grief. I dabbed at my eyes with one of the little paper napkins and breathed my way through it.

  Mrs. Shufflebottom patted my knee. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  I shook my head.

  “Shall I call someone for you?”

  “No,” I managed to croak. “Thank you.” And then—because even in the depths of despair I was still, unmistakably, Dashiell Dawson Dane—I blurted, “Why are you being so nice to me?”

  She patted my knee again, but she didn’t answer for what felt like a long time. “I believe we got off to a bad start, Dashiell. I’m not happy about that. When you arrived, the circumstances with Vivienne, and then, of course, that scene with Pippi—” She took a breath and set her mug down. It clinked against the tray. She clasped her hands. “I believe I am a fair person, and I’d have to be blind not to see the good that you’ve done for people in this town.” She held up a hand when I opened my mouth. “I don’t only mean the murders, young man. You’ve been a good friend to people whom this community has not always treated well. You’re kind and respectful. You’re a library card holder, and that goes a long way with me.” It took me a moment to realize she was making a joke, and a crooked grin slipped out of me. She offered a small smile back. “And I was also very impressed that you didn’t object or explain about the books. You simply paid the fine and went on with your day, even though someone else might have taken the time to explain that Keme had been the one who made you spill the hot chocolate.”

  I wasn’t sure that anybody got so worked up about library fines that they had to blame a teenager, but then I said, “Wait—”

  “Millie told me,” Mrs. Shufflebottom said with another of those small smiles. “Your friends think very highly of you.” After a quiet moment, she said, “I would like to apologize. I hope that I can be a better librarian to you in the future.”

  “You don’t need to apologize. I mean, thank you. This is all—you’re being very kind.” My emotions were unraveling again. I grabbed some more of the napkins, wadded them against my face, and waved blindly at the tray. “You didn’t have to do this.”

  “But I wanted to,” Mrs. Shufflebottom said. And then, in a tone I could only call strained, she said, “And I certainly couldn’t stay angry with a young man who was willing to help Vivienne Carver. I know what she did, and I know what it means, but—but she was important to me, and to this town, for a long time. She was my friend. Is my friend, I suppose. And when you’re my age, I don’t know how to explain it—I certainly don’t condone her behavior, but perhaps, in a way, I understand it.” She rose, waving for me to stay in my seat. “I’m trying to say I’m thankful. I know you didn’t have to help her. I’d like to show you something, if you have a minute.”

  I nodded. I had plenty of minutes—as long as it took for the sheriff to show up and arrest me for taking Bobby’s car, as a matter of fact. Plus, the tea really was good, and the chair was super comfortable, and I was so toasty warm, inside and out, that I was wondering if Mrs. Shufflebottom had a spare throw or a blanket. There’s nothing better for emotional turmoil than a good six-to-eight-hour nap.

  When Mrs. Shufflebottom came back, though, she was holding a book. It was a hardcover still in its dust jacket. The dust jacket was old and faded and, in spite of Mrs. Shufflebottom’s best efforts, showing the faintest hints of wear. Unlike the books in the library’s collection, though, this one didn’t have a barcode or a spine label or the protective cover to keep the dust jacket from getting torn to ribbons. It took me a moment to realize that this book must have come from Mrs. Shufflebottom’s private collection—or maybe from an archive, if the public library had such a thing.

  Then I saw the title.

  Death at Maplewood Manor had been Vivienne Carver’s first novel—published before she helped solve the Nightingale murders and became an overnight celebrity. Of course, now I knew the truth: Vivienne hadn’t helped solve the murders. Death at Maplewood Manor had been something of a flop, and Vivienne had needed a way back into the Forbidden City of publishing. So, she’d done what anybody would do. She’d fabricated a serial killer and framed an innocent woman, and in the process, she’d laid the foundation for a career as the self-proclaimed Matron of Murder.

  It was hard to separate the truth from the memories that surged up. Death at Maplewood Manor had been the first Vivienne Carver book I’d read, and I’d read this same edition—part of my parents’ personal library of mystery novels. The same dust jacket. The same murky art that made me grateful book cover designers had found a new direction after the 1980s. Even the smell of the yellowing paper and old glue brought me back to the first time I’d opened one of Vivienne’s books. And I’d fallen in love, like most of the world, with the work of one of the best writers of our time.

  When I opened the cover, I was surprised to recognize Vivienne’s familiar handwriting. The inscription read, To Agatha (that’s my favorite name!), very truly yours, Vivienne Carver.

  “I wanted to show you because I know what she’s done,” Mrs. Shufflebottom said, “but she was a kind person, once.”

  I nodded, and I thought of the photo Jane had shown me of four teenagers with their whole lives ahead of them: the bright smiles, the hopeful eyes, the sense of the bond between them so palpable that it could only be called love. “I’m sure she was.”

  We were both silent then. From the children’s section came a little boy’s laughter and the murmur of a woman’s voice. A middle-aged man in a baggy, collarless shirt lugged a stack of books toward the circulation desk.

  Mrs. Shufflebottom cleared her throat and tapped the cover of Death at Maplewood Manor. In the voice of someone trying to act casual after a moment of strong emotion, she said, “It hasn’t aged as well as her others, of course, but it’s still a treasure.” I caught a hint of a smile as she added, “Please don’t let Keme startle you.”

  Did Mrs. Shufflebottom just make another joke? I wasn’t prepared to consider that possibility.

  I drank the rest of my tea (careful to keep it away from the book, of course), and tried to understand what Mrs. Shufflebottom had meant. Death at Maplewood Manor hadn’t been an initial commercial success, but after Vivienne’s star began to rise, critics—and readers—found a great deal to love in the book. I scanned the back copy, and it started to come together for me. Mrs. Shufflebottom was right; Death at Maplewood Manor had not aged as well as some of Vivienne’s other work, mostly because the book was built around a shocking revelation that, in 2018, was significantly less shocking.